Nightmares...

are like poetry,

At least metaphorically,

The metaphors are like falsified honesty,

So unreal and yet they express how we really feel,

Maybe that’s why we cannot dream

When we feel insane,

Because are honest nightmares are now the real deal,

So we lay still,

Eyes open,

Reality broken,

Stuck hoping,

That the ceiling has the answers

But it's shy

It hates talking,

We lay there thinking

What this life is,

What it represents,

Waging wars in our heads,

It’s a crisis of identity

When all the past mistakes

Leave so many things unsaid,

When those big dreams of the past have gone and fled,

Laying in our comfortable but uncomforting bed,

We ask ourselves

Who we could have been,

Who we could be,

If only those shooting stars could grant our wishes and help us see,

If each star in the sky...

Gave each person their identity,



If only it was that easy…

I guess for now we’ll just stay stuck...

With these identity crises

She is sweet
She is kind
She is mine
For a time I guess
But then things change
We fight
We yell
We say things that should never have been said
But her eyes teared up
And she yells “I hate you”
And you knew
She is cold
She is careless
She isn’t mine

I have papercuts
Tearing up scraps of paper
Printed photographs
Of memories that should be in sepia
I didn't know my heart could be shredded
And my soul in pieces
As the loneliness creeps in
Overtaking the mould in the cracks
My head in my hands
Shoulders to the floor
As my tears paint the cracked lino
Cursing you with every expletive...

But you did make breakfast
Every weekend and brought it to me
Those lazy days when you would cuddle me
Then you did hold my hand
When Mom was passing
Your words building me up
The way you built that treehouse...

I don't want to forget the old you
Because maybe, just maybe,
He might return.